


soulmate au drabbles

by softirwin



Series: soulmate au [2]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softirwin/pseuds/softirwin
Summary: drabble(s?) from theyou and i were fireworks that went off too soon'verse
Relationships: Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin
Series: soulmate au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982963
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. ashton finding his tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> i am absolutely clogging up the tags right now i am so sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s one of those things where everyone remembers where they were when they found out. 
> 
> Ashton had been in the studio, bleary-eyed and sleepy, rubbing at his eyes as he mumbled a hello to Reg, who looked far too happy for a Thursday morning, and made to head into the live room. 
> 
> “What’s yours, then?” Reg had asked, and Ashton had paused, hand on the door, trying to figure out whether he’d somehow missed the start to this conversation. 
> 
> “Eh?” was all he’d managed to come up with. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ashton from your soulmate au when he finds the tattoo

It’s one of those things where everyone remembers where they were when they found out. 

Ashton had been in the studio, bleary-eyed and sleepy, rubbing at his eyes as he mumbled a hello to Reg, who looked far too happy for a Thursday morning, and made to head into the live room. 

“What’s yours, then?” Reg had asked, and Ashton had paused, hand on the door, trying to figure out whether he’d somehow missed the start to this conversation. 

“Eh?” was all he’d managed to come up with. 

“Your tattoo.” Ashton had frowned, casting a glance down at his forearms to see the moons, the tally, the heart. 

“Reg, you’ve seen my tattoos,” he’d said, bewildered. Reg had rolled his eyes. 

“No, the _new_ one,” he’d said. 

“The moons?” Ashton had asked, holding his forearms out. 

“The one you got last night.” Ashton’s frown had just deepened. 

“Mate, are you alright?” he’d said, a little alarmed. “Think I’d remember getting a tattoo last night.” 

“Have you not been on your fucking phone?” Reg had said, frowning at him, and Ashton had shook his head. He never goes on his phone before midday. Cleanses the mind, he thinks. “Fucking hell,” Reg had said, and had pulled something up on his phone and thrust it in Ashton’s face. 

_Mysterious tattoos appearing all over Australia_ , Ashton had read. And then read again. And then re-read a third time. 

“Is this the Onion?” he’d asked, handing Reg’s phone back. Reg had sighed, exasperated, and pulled up his sleeve to show Ashton a brand new tattoo of two half-full test tubes on his forearm, ink crisp and dark on Reg’s skin. 

“Fuck’s that meant to be?” Ashton had asked. Reg had shrugged. 

“Not a clue, mate,” he’d said. “Everyone’s got one, though. People think they’re meant to be your soulmate.” Ashton’s stomach had flipped at that, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed face forcing its way into the forefront of his mind. He’d stared down at his hands exaggeratedly, frowning, turning them this way and that, looked down at his shins just in case. 

“Well, I haven’t got one,” he’d declared flippantly, and turned to head back into the live room, at which point Reg had gasped. 

“Yeah, you do,” he’d said, and Ashton had whipped back around at the speed of fucking light, twisting to look at his hips, his arse, anywhere Reg could have seen a fucking tattoo. 

“Where?” he’d asked, heart beating wildly, because he’s wearing a shirt and shorts, and he can’t see anything on his hamstring. Reg had pointed, which was fucking useless since pointing’s not exactly the finest art, and Ashton had snapped _fucking where, mate?_ at him once more before Reg had leaned forward and tapped on Ashton’s tricep. 

“Can’t see it properly,” Ashton had grunted. Easier than saying _I don’t want to see it. Don’t want to know._

“Here,” Reg had said, pulling his phone out again, and Ashton had pulled back. 

“Nah,” he’d said. “Don’t want to see it for the first time on a photo.” Reg had cocked an eyebrow at him, hesitated for a moment, but then nodded and put his phone away. 

“Well, fucking get on with it, then,” he’d said, and Ashton had smiled uneasily, and it had dropped off his face the minute he’d turned on his heel and headed into the live room. 

——-

Ashton’s never really given the idea of soulmates much thought. 

He’d always believed in it on some level, he thinks - maybe not that there’s one person, but that there are multiple who are perfect fits - until he’d met Luke. 

Luke had been a fucking whirlwind. Three years of Ashton’s life, and he remembers every fucking moment of them more vividly than he remembers any before, or any since. He remembers the exact hue of blue of Luke’s eyes, the way they’d crinkle when he grinned, the way they’d well with tears when they watched a sad film, the way he’d burrow into Ashton’s chest and wrap his arm around Ashton’s waist and pull, and the way that Ashton’s heart would fucking _sing_ in response. At first, Ashton had told himself it was just a particularly intense honeymoon stage. He’d read online that honeymoon stages could last up to two years, especially if it was long distance, and given that he was away for weeks at a time recording, he told himself that was all it was. The magnetic fucking pull of Luke Hemmings was just an intense honeymoon phase, just something Ashton knew all to well but had never experienced on this level. 

After two years, though, it didn’t abate. In fact, it got worse. 

Ashton would start to feel a little unwell if he stayed away from Luke for too long. Never to the point of actual illness, but it felt like there was something spiritually wrong, like his soul was misaligned. He told himself it was just love, normal love, but he knew it wasn’t. There was something stronger at play, and it fucking terrified him. Something told him he was going to spend the rest of his life tied to Luke, and he’d pushed back, said no, he’d only ever spend the rest of his life tied to himself. Luke could come along for the ride, but he wouldn’t _be_ the ride. 

For the first week, he does nothing but read theories online - doesn’t look at his tattoo, doesn’t talk about his tattoo, doesn’t let anyone else talk about his tattoo - and he feels that same cosmic misalignment again. It’s never gone, not really, but he’s got better at managing it, at numbing it. He never feels quite right, but he never feels all wrong nowadays, either. The theories, though, bring it back in full swing. He spends hours lying in bed, feeling spiritually queasy, after reading article after article about how they might be soulmate markings and thinking _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ because it doesn’t feel wrong when he reads it. It feels anything but fucking wrong, and no matter how much he wills himself to make it feel wrong, his heart sternly tells his mind _no, not this time._

It’s a full week before he can bring himself to look at it, and even then it’s only with a buffer. 

He gets to the studio early, knowing Reg’ll be there, and before Reg even has a chance to say anything, before Ashton has a chance to bottle it and go along with Reg’s conversation, he forces himself to speak. 

“Can you look at my tattoo for me?” A look of surprise crosses Reg’s face, and Ashton kind of wants to fucking die. 

“Sure,” Reg says, and he gets up and stands behind Ashton, touching his tricep gently. Ashton can feel something strong when his fingers brush over Ashton’s tattoo, and he’s not sure whether it’s a good or a bad sensation. 

“I don’t really know how to describe it, mate,” Reg says, letting Ashton’s arm drop. “It’s a microphone with daisies wrapped around it.” 

“Can you take a picture?” Ashton asks, voice small, and Reg nods, sliding his phone out of his pocket, and there’s the sound of a camera shutter and then the phone is being held in front of Ashton.

Ashton never thought he’d be able to pinpoint the moment his world fell apart, but then again, he never thought he’d be marked as Luke Hemmings’s either.

A microphone, Reg had said. But he hadn’t said an old-fashioned one, just like the one Luke has (or had?) stashed away in the corner of his bedroom, that he’d stopped using years and years ago, that Ashton had only ever seen in his hands once, when he’d thought Ashton was out for the day. He’d been tentatively singing a song, soft and quiet, like he couldn’t trust the notes to come out right, the words not to trip on their way out of his lips. Ashton had stood there, bedroom door open just a crack, absolutely fucking mesmerised. He’d known, then, that Luke had been it for him, and he’d nearly buckled under the weight of the fear that accompanied that fleeting thought. 

(Two days later, he’d called Luke from a phone box in California. Three minutes was all it had taken.) 

“Fuck,” he says, and puts a hand on Reg’s mixing board to steady himself, because, well, _fuck._

“Mate, are you alright?” Reg says, alarmed. Ashton barely even registers it, too busy seeing the beautiful, delicate little daisies wrapped in a chain around the microphone, each one too beautiful for the pain they represent. The blades are sharp, pointed, and Ashton vaguely wonders if there’s some kind of twisted symbolism in that.

“You really fucking think they’re soulmate tattoos?” he’d managed to grit out. 

“Dunno,” Reg had said, still sounding a little unnerved. 

“You know who yours is about?” 

“I- no,” Reg had said. “Do _you_ really think they’re- are you- is it about someone?” Ashton had swallowed back bile, and nodded. 

“My ex.” 

——-

It had taken five weeks for Ashton to get the answer to the question he’d been dying to ask the minute he’d managed to process what the tattoo was, and what it might represent. 

Ashton had spent those five weeks breaking his no-phone-after-ten-and-before-midday rule day in, day out, picking it up and putting it down, typing out messages and erasing them again. It didn’t matter whether or not Luke had Ashton, he told himself, because Ashton had severed any chances they had at reuniting. Luke was probably in a new relationship. Luke probably didn’t even remember Ashton. Luke had definitely deleted his number. But then, if Luke had deleted his number, it wouldn’t hurt to text, would it? No, he shouldn’t. On the off chance that he hadn’t, his response might hurt Ashton too much. But then again, was he just telling himself that so he wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of his actions? Running, the same way he’d been running for the past two years? 

In the end, the decision is taken from him. 

He’s in the studio again, breaking another one of his rules - no phones in the studio - twirling his sticks in his hands, bored, while Reg and Jasmine hammer something about the bass out. At first, he thinks he’s imagined it, the rapid buzzing in his back pocket, because he doesn’t bring his phone into the studio - maybe the construction work outside is louder than he’d thought - before he remembers shit, he _had_ brought his phone into the studio, and pulls it out. 

_**Luke**  
What’s yours? _

Ashton’s heart lurches, and his stomach drops, reading and re-reading the two words. 

_What’s yours?_

It feels surreal to see Luke’s name in a notification again. Ashton had meant to delete it, but had only got as far as deleting the stupid nickname he’d given Luke, changing it to Luke Hemmings, and then deleting his surname, because it feels too formal and there’ll only ever be one Luke to him, no matter how many he meets. It’s a moment he’s dreamed of, daydreamed of, fantasised about, but not like this. Not so stilted, so cold, so distant. Luke hadn’t even said hello. 

But Luke wouldn’t have asked, surely, had his tattoo not been Ashton? There would have been no need, Ashton thinks, phone slipping down in his sweaty palms, catching it with one hand while he wipes the other on his shorts. Luke would never have thought to ask Ashton otherwise. But he’d taken five weeks to ask, so maybe it _was_ just curiosity? Maybe he couldn’t figure his out, and was running through a long list, and Ashton was near the bottom? 

“Ash?” Jasmine calls, and Ashton looks up, wild-eyed, and she frowns at him. “Are you alright?” 

“What?” his voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat, but it just hurts his dry mouth. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah. Sorry. Give me…” he trails off, staring down at his phone again. 

“Take five?” Reg suggests, and everyone nods. Ashton barely even registers it, reading the two words again. 

_What’s yours?_

Should he lie? Maybe it’d be easier, for everybody involved, if he pretends it’s not Luke. They can both go their own ways and find someone else to love. There are seven billion people in the world, after all, and some of them don’t have tattoos. They could do it. 

_But_ , the selfish little voice in his mind says, _you don’t want that. You don’t want Luke with anyone else. You want him for yourself._

And that’s true, it is, but even though it hurts every fucking fibre of his being, Ashton doesn’t think he can make Luke happy, and that’s what he wants more than anything. More, even, he tells himself, than he wants Luke to be happy with him. 

_**Me**  
I don’t know. _

_**Me**  
Not sure, actually. What’s yours? _

_**Me**  
Hey, man, hope you’re good_

_**Me**  
It’s my friend _

It all feels wrong. Something in Ashton’s gut, something he’d only ever felt with Luke, tugs uncomfortably, telling him _no, don’t lie. You need to tell him the truth._

So he tries. 

_**Me**  
Hi. I’m sorry for how everything ended. I wonder if we could speak on the phone at some point? It feels too impersonal over text. My tattoo is you, but that doesn’t surprise me. I’m not sure if you’ve seen, but people think they might be soulmate tattoos. I’ve seen a lot of different theories, but those are the only ones that seem to make sense. I’m sorry. For everything. I still love you. _

It’s too much, and it’s too late, and it’s not enough, and Ashton can never fucking be enough for Luke Hemmings. No one could ever compete with that fucking supernova, but fuck if Ashton doesn’t want to try and be a star teetering on the brink of Luke’s event horizon. 

Ashton’s backspacing before he even realises, typing two words before he can second-guess himself.

_**Me**  
It’_ _s you._


	2. "i don't want to talk about it"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, it stands to reason that the first time Clifford goes missing is while Luke’s in London with Ashton. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "i don't want to talk about it"

Of course, it stands to reason that the first time Clifford goes missing is while Luke’s in London with Ashton. 

He’s not even sure how it happens. One minute Clifford’s in Luke’s line of vision, barking happily as he chases a squirrel and then changes his mind and chases his own tail instead, and then Ashton’s calling _Luke,_ making Luke turn around on instinct, only to see Ashton tapping his watch to indicate they need to get going if they’re going to make it to their next interview with the researchers, and when he turns back, Clifford’s gone. 

It doesn’t immediately register, because Clifford bounds about like a fucking madman anyway, so Luke just searches the area a little lazily, eyes flicking from tree to bush to path to tree, but when he’s covered about three-quarters of the patch of grass in front of them, he’s frowning, stepping forward as he twists left to right, panic rising in his chest as he realises _shit, shit, Clifford’s not there._

“Shit,” he mutters, and looks over to the tree Clifford had been playing near, just in case he’d somehow managed to miss him, but the only dog there is a huge Samoyed ambling lazily around its base. 

“Luke,” Ashton calls again, and Luke feels a sudden stab of anger so strong that it makes his vision blur, mixing with the panic to create a hot mixture of fury that tries to claw its way up his throat and onto his tongue. God, if Ashton hadn’t called his name just to tell him they need to leave, this wouldn’t have happened. He couldn’t’ve just fucking said _Luke, we need to go_ like a normal person, could he? No, the fucking narcissist needed Luke to be looking at him, needed to be the centre of Luke’s attention. Fucking hell. 

Luke grits his teeth as he jogs past the tree the Samoyed’s sniffing around, not even catching its attention as he passes, and looks wildly around the open, empty space on the other side. There’s a couple walking their Labrador to his left, three children playing football on his right, a mother exasperatedly dragging her screaming child away from a puddle he clearly wants to play in, but no tiny, yappy dog bounding around, chasing birds or squirrels or other dogs. 

Shit. 

_Shit._

He can’t have lost Clifford. He _can’t_ have. Not in _London,_ especially, thousands and thousands of miles from home and Michael and Calum with only Ashton for company. God, he’d rather be alone, he thinks, as he turns back around and looks back over at the tree a little desperately, like his memory of Clifford trotting around it will make him re-materialise there, somehow. It doesn’t, though, unless Clifford re-materialises as a huge, fluffy white dog, and Luke swears under his breath as his heart hammers in his chest, fists clenching and unclenching at his side as his gaze flits from left to right and back again, hazy around the edges with panic. 

He doesn’t even know how to look for a missing dog. Posters, sure, but where? London’s _huge,_ and Clifford could be fucking anywhere by now, full of endless energy and curiosity and an insatiable desire to explore streets he’s never been down before. He’s far too friendly for his own good, too, always yaps at Ashton’s feet in that way that means _I want to be picked up right now and by you specifically, fuck the guy who buys me food and toys and cuddles me at night,_ and a vision of Clifford sat at someone else’s feet at dinner, blinking up at them beseechingly while they shovel chicken into their mouth hits Luke so hard it almost gives him whiplash, makes him swallow back bile. 

What’s he going to say to Ashton? _I lost my dog in the three seconds I looked away from him?_ Ashton’s had Spot for years, had Ralph and Evie before her, too, and _he’s_ never lost any of his dogs. Luke’s going to look completely incompetent, fucking hell. It doesn’t matter, though, really, he tells himself - at least, not yet, won’t matter until Clifford’s back with him and safe again. 

He takes a deep breath and clenches his fists again, inhales deeply and exhales heavily, trying to let the desire to throttle Ashton leave with the air in his lungs, and then marches stiffly back around the tree, rehearsing what he’s going to say to Ashton. _You cunt, Clifford ran away while you were-_ no, too angry. _Clifford’s run awa-_ no, too matter-of-fact, makes it sound like it’s a common occurrence. _I need to find Clifford,_ maybe? That’s vague enough, isn’t it? Yeah, that’ll do; he can send Ashton off to the interview and let him make their excuses while he combs the park looking for Clifford. After all, it’s Ashton’s fucking fault Clifford’s got lost, isn’t it? The least the fucker can do is come up with an excuse for Luke’s absence.

Luke takes another deep breath, rounds the corner and plays the words over and over again in his head, trying to make sure they’re practiced enough to sound real, eyes searching for Ashton. He spots him waiting by the gate leading out of the park, looking aimlessly around as he stands lazily, shifting from foot to foot, arms at his side, dog between his legs- 

Dog between his legs. 

Clifford’s right there, nestled happily between Ashton’s legs, gazing aimlessly around the park with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. He looks serene, that calm happiness that he usually only gets with Luke, and it makes Luke furious for some reason, makes him jog over to Ashton with an expression that makes Ashton frown at him as soon as he sees him coming. 

“What?” Ashton asks, puzzled, brows drawn over hazel eyes. Luke swallows, trying not to think about the way Ashton’s lashes are casting tiny shadows on the smooth skin of his cheekbones. He still wants to throttle him. 

“Nothing,” he says tightly, and yanks Clifford’s lead out of Ashton’s hand without so much as a thank you, relief flooding his veins so fast and hard that he barely even notices the way his fingers tingle as they make contact with Ashton’s skin. 

“What happened?” Ashton sounds genuinely concerned, like maybe Luke had been mugged while he’d been running wildly around the field - Jesus, Luke thinks, with a tiny grimace; he must have looked fucking insane to Ashton. 

“Nothing,” Luke snaps, and winds Clifford’s lead around his hand a few times, making sure he can’t stray further than a foot from Luke’s heels. Clifford glares up at him, like he knows what Luke’s doing and resents him for restricting his freedom, but doesn’t bark about it, which is something. 

“Are you okay?” Ashton asks, and his voice is a little softer now, tinged with the sort of gentle concern that Luke only ever hears from Calum to Michael. It makes Luke’s stomach lurch, somehow, the way he associates that tone with Calum and Michael, and he nods curtly, and looks away from Ashton.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Luke says, letting all the anger and frustration leak into his voice to hide the slight edge of fear, and Ashton bites his lip but nods, and steps away. 

“Alright,” he says, and that’s it. He doesn’t push, he doesn’t nudge, he doesn’t wheedle, he doesn’t force it out of Luke, he just steps back, steps away, and respects Luke’s space. A wave of guilt washes over Luke at that - it hadn’t _really_ been Ashton’s fault, had it? - but he stares steadfastly ahead of him as he reaches for the gate and pulls it open with a little more force than strictly necessary. Ashton lets him go through first, lets him tug on Clifford’s lead and pull him through too, before walking behind him, closing the gate and falling into step a metre or two away from Luke, giving him the space he needs. 

They walk in silence for a while, Ashton ambling alongside Luke as he tries to focus on his ebbing anger, trying to dredge it back to the forefront of his heart so he won’t have to think about the guilt that’s quietly but insistently making a home in it. Loath though he is to admit it to himself, Luke has to concede that it wouldn’t have been Ashton’s fault if Clifford _had_ run away. And it’s not Ashton’s fault that Clifford had run to him instead of Luke, that he’s happy and calm with him in the same way he is with Luke, but it doesn’t stop the tired anger spiking in Luke’s veins a little when he thinks about it, furious at the idea that Clifford could possibly like Ashton. But it’s not Ashton’s fault. 

Luke doesn’t say anything, can’t bring himself to apologise for his bad mood and his unwarranted snappiness, but by the time they arrive at the interview, still not having spoken a word, he realises that the gap between himself and Ashton has narrowed to all of a few centimetres, his hand brushing against Ashton’s every so often as they walk, and he can’t remember whether it had been him or Ashton who had closed the gap.

(It doesn’t really matter, though, he realises with a jolt, because either way, he’d allowed it to happen.)


End file.
